


robin's egg heart(break)

by Nepenthene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not explicit tho don't worry), Dean's got those major self-esteem issues, Established Relationship, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Spoilers, Oneshot, Poetry, Post-Canon, Soft Dean Winchester, cas is a good boyfriend, human!Cas, shitty motel rooms, showering together, they both need hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepenthene/pseuds/Nepenthene
Summary: "So come here. Let me love those bruises out of you. We'll love like children with a box of bandages— we won't ask where it hurts. We'll just kiss all of it."- Ashe Vernon
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 78





	robin's egg heart(break)

They’re covered in blood.

Not just their own; a lot of it belongs to the vamps they just finished wiping out. Beheading isn’t clean, and the fighting that precedes it isn’t either. There’s dirt and cobwebs and god knows what else smeared all over them, too. But Dean’s sleeve is sticky, soaked with Cas’ blood where he’d used it to try and clean him up a little. 

Head wounds always bleed a lot.

Cas fell asleep against the window at some point on the drive back, and after Dean pulls Baby into the parking spot in front of their motel room, fighting the burn of exhaustion behind his eyelids, he looks over. The harsh yellow-orange of the street lamp highlights the bruise blooming on his cheekbone, dark and angry. Dean puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and gives him a shake.

“Cas. Hey. We’re back.”

Cas wakes slowly, peeling his cheek off the window. He looks like hell warmed over, and Dean grimaces; stupid, _stupid._ He shouldn’t have let him sleep. If he’d been concussed…

But he seems fine. So at least there’s no more harm done than there was already.

The two of them climb out of the car and shuffle over to the motel room, both too tired and in too much pain to talk. It’s Dean’s fault: he misjudged, big time. There were way more vamps than they thought there were, and even though they handled it… well. They’re worse for wear than most of the vamps were, decapitation aside.

But that’s not the worst part.

No, the worst part was that Cas had wanted to wait. He’d felt like there was something off about the nest, about the vamps they’d tracked. He thought there might be more to the situation than they could see.

And Dean told him it was just nerves. Pre-game jitters, he’d said, stemming from still being fairly new to hunting as a human. He said they’d be fine.

Cas was right, though. And now they’ve paid the price for Dean’s impatience, Dean’s complacency.

They both narrowly avoided being bitten more times than Dean likes to think about.

Dean drops his duffle onto the floor, the machetes inside clanking dully against each other. He and Cas look at each other for a second, and Dean sees the faint, reproachful _I told you so_ in his bleary eyes.

He averts his gaze from Cas’ split lip and bruised cheekbone, stark under the pale overhead light. Another reminder that he’s human, now. No different from Dean in terms of physical strength or reflexes or speed. And just as vulnerable, too.

He gestures to the bathroom, trying to ignore the hot tightness of his throat. He doesn’t need the warm water. (Doesn’t deserve it.) 

“Go ahead.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and leans his elbows on his knees, his head dropping into the space between his rounded shoulders. 

He failed Cas. Again.

He looks up in confusion when the bed dips beside him, creaking in unison with Cas’ tiny groan of discomfort. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. His face is wan, but he’s being serious. Dean makes a noise that might’ve been a snort if he wasn’t so beat. Cas’ hand slides to the back of his neck, resting heavy and comforting there, and Dean’s eyes slip closed. “Stop that. It’s not.”

Dean doesn’t move, though. Cas sighs faintly and leans in to press a kiss to his temple before getting up again, letting his hand drag through Dean’s hair as he drifts away to grab his towel and shower stuff.

Once he hears the shower turn on, Dean finally lets himself open his eyes again. Cas has left the door ajar, and Dean’s bag of toiletries is sitting pointedly on the counter, directly in his line of sight. _Come here,_ the carefully constructed tableau says. _I’m waiting._

He wavers. 

Damn it, Cas.

His boots go first, thumping to the worn carpet. One topples onto its side, the sole exposed to the room, laces splayed every which way.

Jacket comes next. He winces as he eases it off, hissing at the way the movement pulls at his shoulder. Gonna need some Advil for that. Still, it could’ve been worse. At least it’s not dislocated.

The jacket’s ruined, though. A couple of the vamps had knives.

Dean walks the few feet to the bathroom and then stops, his hand resting on the doorknob. He shouldn’t. He got Cas hurt, tonight. He always gets Cas hurt.

But the door’s open.

The air is heavy with moisture, the mirror already fogged up. Cas’ clothes lie in a grungy heap on the floor, and Dean nudges them aside with his foot so he can close the door properly. The figure behind the shower curtain doesn’t react.

He bites down on the small noises of pain that bubble up in his throat as he undresses, layer by sweaty, dirty, blood-spattered layer. He toes his socks off instead of trying to reach down and use his hands.

Cas turns his head a little when Dean steps into the tub and tugs the shower curtain shut behind him, but doesn’t say anything. He just stays where he is, standing with his head ducked under the spray, one hand pressed against the tiled wall in front of him. Dean’s gaze sweeps down over his back, cataloguing every purplish bruise, every scrape, every cut. All from tonight’s fiasco. He swallows, shame prickling beneath his skin.

“Dean,” Cas says. “The water’s going to get cold.”

Which had been the plan. But Dean can’t bring himself to argue with Cas right now, not over this. And it’s not like that’s a fight he’d ever win.

He closes the distance between them and slides his arms around Cas’ waist, closing his eyes as the water hits him. He presses his lips to the jut of bone at the top of Cas’ spine, and Cas covers one of his hands with his own.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers against Cas’ skin. “I should’ve listened to you.”

The water patters down, catching on Dean’s eyelashes and plastering his hair to his head. Dripping off the end of his nose.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Cas says gently, his voice rough with tiredness. He turns around, bringing his hands up to cup Dean’s face. His thumbs skate over Dean’s cheekbones. “The unexpected is in our job description. It’s no one’s fault.”

Dean still doesn’t look him in the eyes. Can’t. Maybe it’s stubbornness. But he still feels like this is his fault.

Cas kisses him: just once, achingly careful, like Dean’s made of glass. Like he’ll break if Cas handles him too roughly. 

He almost does anyway.

Then Cas picks up his shampoo, a honey and rosemary scent he’d decided he liked, and squeezes some into the palm of his hand. Dean had almost said something about it being girly when Cas first started buying it, but he’d caught himself and just asked to smell it. If it made Cas happy, there wasn’t a problem. And it did smell good.

Cas works the suds through Dean’s hair, stopping every so often to press his lips to whatever part of Dean’s face is closest. The kisses are like butterflies, landing softly on his skin and then lifting away just as lightly. 

They feel like forgiveness, despite how adamant Cas was that Dean didn’t need it.

Dean returns the favour after Cas finishes washing the foam away, working his fingers gently through the blood-matted hair at Cas’ temple. The bubbles run pink as the water carries them down over Cas’ neck and shoulders. Dean doesn’t stop until they’re clear.

They keep going like that, taking turns cleaning each other up until the water swirling around their feet isn’t a gritty brownish-grey, until all the flaking tracks of blood and smudges of dirt are gone. Then they just stand there, wrapped up in each other’s arms with their foreheads pressed together, until the hot water starts to run out.

Cas never completely stops touching Dean as they dry off and get dressed for bed. Part of Dean is embarrassed by it; he’s not a kid, he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need this… constant reassurance. He’s always done without it before.

But a bigger part of him is grateful. So he doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t really say anything until they’re tucked into bed, facing each other in the semi-darkness of the room. He rests the pad of his thumb over the split in Cas’ lower lip, wishing he had the ability to just… smooth it away. Cas looks at him steadily, like he knows what Dean’s thinking. 

“Thank you,” Dean says quietly. He replaces his thumb with his mouth for a second, the first time he’s let himself kiss Cas since that press of lips to the nape of his neck. Then he carefully pulls Cas closer, burying his nose in clean, soap-scented skin. 

Cas is okay. They’re okay. Dean might’ve messed up, but they’re _fine._

They fall asleep like that, curled together, one of Cas’ hands running through Dean’s hair. And the cut on Cas’ temple, the raw scrapes across Dean’s knuckles, those’ll still be there in the morning. 

But the softness will be, too. It’s not as fragile as it seems.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I may have written this to distract myself from the finale. Because that's tonight. It's happening tonight. This is fine. I'm fine.
> 
> Anyways! Hope you enjoyed! If you want to cry about Cas and Dean, go listen to "Hello My Old Heart" by the Oh Hellos, and then everything else by them because they are great.


End file.
